Before the Dark Throne Pt I
by KopyKitty
Summary: The story of the adventure of five companions that will take them before the dark throne. Based on an RPG. Elrond and Legolas guest star in some chapters. RR please.
1. Chapter 1

Before the Dark Throne Pt. I 

Chapter One: Welcome to the Forsaken Inn

Where's me sword, me sharp, sharp sword, It's sold for beer and pipeweed, There is no need for fighting, When the pub is so inviting, And selling beer and pipeweed Where's me pony, me fat, fat pony, He's sold for beer and pipeweed, 

_There is no need to ride away,_

_When the pub is open everyday,_

_And selling beer and pipeweed._

_Where's me wife, me loving, loving wife,_

_She's sold for beer and pipeweed,_

_There is no needed for my dear,_

_When the pub is oh so near._

_And selling beer and pipeweed._

The soft glow of the candlelight played on the wrinkled and copper faces of the hobbit minstrels as they sand the tune. The song ended and the various travelers cheered wildly. They rocked back and forth on the wooden benches and clapped their tankards together in applause.

The red-faced hobbits took one last final bow and retreated down from their table. They leaned back in their chairs and took out their pipes. It was just another day at the Forsaken Inn.

Built from the strong wood of the Chetwood forest, the Forsaken Inn has stood a day's ride east of Bree since well into the Third Age, providing a safe haven for the travelers trekking the Great East Road. It was more rustic than the taverns in Bree, but it was still a sight for the sore eyes of a weary wanderer standing just out front.

A violent tempest was roared beyond the for walls of the pub. The peaceful night sky was hidden under a blanket of black storm clouds. Deafening cracks of thunder shook the earth and white shards of lightening penetrated the darkness, leaving only pure white or pure shadow before extinguishing. The gathering inside of the stalwart structure heeded it not. All their worries could be drowned out with the tip of a tankard of a puff of a pipe.

A bedraggled and way worn man entered the building, hooded and cloaked. He let fall his hood and revealed a tanned and scarred face. His black and unkept hair fell in his dark eyes, giving him an ill-favored look. The customers gave him a wide berth and shot suspicious glances his way. Far into the Hinterlands of Middle-Earth there are some that would consider him a lord among men. But here in the West he was a rogue warrior bereft of lordship, home, and kin.

A stranger in a strange land, fighting where his sword was needed most. Ignoring the prying eyes, the stranger made his way across the filthy floor and slumped in a chair.

Back beyond the bar, the employees took one look in the man's direction, and sent their youngest to him. Tarcrist grumbled something as he made he way over the where the stranger was sitting, staring into the fire.

He told Tarcrist to call him Nalilothon, though he doubted it was his real name. The name was too fair a man dressed a s a brigand. Many thought he was one of the Dunedain Rangers, but that was far from the truth. It was true that he had studied herblore and woodcraft, much like the Rangers. But he was lacking the glorious ancestry that they possessed. He was not a scion of a fallen Numenor nor a son of Eorl the Young.

His clothes were woven of all the colors that mimicked the wilderness. The cloth appeared to be dark brown if one would take a passing glance at the stranger. But if a closer look was taken, other colors would be revealed. It could become somber gray like the twilight, or black like a starless night sky, or dark green like the canopy of a dense forest.

A one-handed sword hung from his belt in a plain scabbard, stained and hardened by age and wilderness. One could only guess how many knives he had concealed in when all else failed. All his weapons were now concealed under the folds of his cloak but were still discernable.

Unwillingly, Tarcrist's legs took him over to the newcomer's chair. He approached Nalilothon with caution, suspicion in his eyes.

"Welcome to the Forsaken Inn!" he said, smiling in fake hospitality. This man made him feel nervous. "What can I do for you?"

"A tankard of ale and a bite to eat would be appreciated, my good man," said Nalilothon. He casually tossed a gold sovereign which Tarcrist caught clumsily. The thing was probably stolen, but the more money he got, the sooner he'd leave this place. With a nod of understanding, Tarcrist hurried along and disappeared through the doors to the kitchen.

First came the ale, followed by a place of cheese and bread. Nalilothon peered into the tankard at the frothy, golden liquid with a look of bliss. The burden of many cares fell off his shoulders as he tipped the tankard back and let the nectar touch his parched lips. He closed his eyes and let the warmth spread from his toes to his hair. A euphoria he had not experienced for many nights and long days. A soft and elated sigh left his lips as he stretched his legs upon the hearth.

He ate his food in silence, casually staring into the fire, watching the coals flare red under the covering of ash. Nalilothon wished to tarry longer here and rest, rest without the fear that he might not live to see the dawn. But he couldn't. Duty had to come before comfort. There were oaths and promises he had made that he intended to keep. Only a few hours could be spared and in that time her intended to sleep. Closing his eyes, he strayed into the blessed oblivion devoid of worry and burden.


	2. Barrazzev

Author's Note: Hi, this is my first fan fiction, and as I said in the summary, it's based on a RPG I participated in on MEO (Middle-Earth Online) a year or so ago. To give credit where it is due, the following writers helped to develop the plot and characters: Estelmo, Dagothorn, ieatglue44, Ish, Aravan, and Lord Galathil. I was under the name skyarcher. The plot was initially Estelmo's idea, and so his character is the main character, but we all contributed. To be honest, I'll admit that the first chapter was a little slow and the second chapter isn't so hot either. I went through a lot of trouble to try and smooth the writing styles of the different people out, but you'll see that the first few chapters are a little inflated. Please bear with me because the story is definitely worth a read. If you have any questions or suggestions, please e-mail me, and I would really, really love it if y'all could review… 'cause otherwise I feel like I'm talking to myself. I'll try and review the stories of any one who reviews for me.

Chapter Two: Barrazzev

A clash of earthenware woke Nalilothon prematurely from his slumber. It seemed that an intoxicated merchant made an attempt to get to his room but instead collapsed upon the table, pushing all of the contents to the floor. Without a farewell, Nalilothon headed to the drunkenly leaning stable and fetched his rough-haired horse. The storm abated and only a soft patter of rain remained. The night was waning into oblivion and the world was cast into a pale darkness as the sun rose in the east.

A small beaten path united the Great East Road to the Forsaken Inn. Nalilothon guided his horse cautiously across he small tributary, avoiding the flooded ruts and the moist soil. Within minutes his horse was trotting down the thoroughfare. The mindless rhythm of riding allowed Nalilothon's thoughts to wander. Little did he heed the road ahead until a tongue of silver flashed before him. Acting on his deep-rooted instincts, Nalilothon checked his horse and drew his own sword from its sheath.

There was a man standing in the center of the road with a sword in his outstretched hand, as if he was challenging the wanderer. He was clad in a great black cloak, a glint of armor could be espied through the folds of the wrapping. A black war horse was picketed behind him. Nalilothon's horse became overwhelmed by an unknown terror and threw its rider onto the ground and ran wild from the menace. The wanderer fell to the ancient roadway, sword still clasped tightly in his hand.

"Be gone stranger!" spat Nalilothon. "I ride to Imladris and I do not have the time nor the patience to bandy words with a highwayman. My horse had all my belongings. Follow him if you must have your spoils."

"Fool," the stranger chuckled. ""You know naught whom you face. I am Barrazzev. I come from the East and I come for your head."

He unclasped his cloak and the garment flew away with the morning wind, revealing armor highly embellished with the devices of the ruling Warlords in the East. His skin was deathly pale and marred with long white scars, testaments of terrible pain. His dark eyes flashed with malevolence as he spoke words of terror and power. An aura of fear flew with them and it gripped Nalilothon and sunk into the very marrow of his bones.

Nalilothon staggered back, shocked by this stranger. He was no bandit or rustic warrior robbing travelers of coins. This was an armored assassin bearing powerful weapons and dangerous spells.

_Finally, _Nalilothon thought sadistically. _A man worthy to fight._

"Mere words and a show of shiny toys will not defeat me," said Nalilothon. A mirthless laugh left his lips.

"So be it. It shall be the end of you, Nalilothon of the Moriquendi," growled Barrazzev menacingly.

They raised their swords in salute, their blades catching the morning light. With a clang of metal, their swords met in midair. Nalilothon disengaged first and lunged at his opponent. Barrazzev parried with ease, whipping his sword through the air with inhuman speed. They circled each other warily until their swords met again and the clash was followed by intense sword play.

They struggled back and forth, arresting each other's blows while dealing deadly yet fruitless thrusts. Again their blades were interlaced. With a mere flick of his wrist, Barrazzev knocked Nalilothon's sword out of his hand and left a nasty gash on his arm.

Barrazzev dealt a hard kick with his leather boot to Nalilothon's stomach. Nalilothon bent forward in pain, and Barrazzev hit him in the back of the head with the hilt of his sword, forcing him to his knees. With his left hand he drew a dagger with a highly decorated hilt. It was clearly made for ceremony. He pulled Nalilothon's head back, exposing his bare throat.

'

"I expected more from you," growled Barrazzev with a hint of disappointment in his voice. And arrow whined and with a faint cry of dismay, Barrazzev dropped his dagger and wrenched the arrow from his shoulder. With a malevolent hiss, he turned and stood defiantly against the unseen menace that lurked in the eaves of the forest.

"Show yourself!" Barrazzev bellowed. Birds lifted from the trees here and there, and a few leaves tumbled from the branches. There was no other sound but Nalilothon's breathing. "Coward!"

A clear voice rang out from the wilds: _O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!_

The assassin cowered back as if stricken by a blow. With all speed, he mounted his horse and galloped away, he was soon hidden by the winding road. With all the energy he could muster, he grabbed the dagger Barrazzev had left behind and hid it in his cloak. Then he collapsed in the dirt, bereft of energy and strength. Just before he slipped out of consciousness, he craned he neck toward the wilderness, hoping that this newcomer was friend not foe.

Author's Notes:

All right, so there you go… the first peek at a plot that slowly unfolds more and more. The next chapter will be a little more light-hearted (thank god), and then some action.


	3. The Farming Knight

This next character, Dagonen, was invented by Dagothorn. We all confused his character with his username at least once, and he teased us about it at the end of the story.

Chapter Three: The Farming Knight

Dagonen approached the fallen figure in the road. The middle-aged man cocked his head to the side and sighed.

"Well stranger," he said, "It's fortunate that this is my hunting day and that our paths met here. A moment more and your head would be farther than you would have cared for.."

The wildman gave Dagonen one look, and passed out from the blow to his head. The commoner slung his crude bow over his pack.

Taking a look left and right, he lifted Nalilothon onto his shoulder with surprising strength and half dragged him down the Great East Road. It branched off onto a smaller country road deeply rutted with many wagons being pulled across it everyday.

Dagonen was dressed as any farmer might be dressed… comfortable cotton pants and a warm cotton shirt with a wool vest. It was hard to imagine him as anything but a modest farmer if not for the body in the clothes. Dagonen had the posture and presence of a king, with a wide chest and thick arms. Long black hair fell to his shoulder-blades and a scruffy beard resided on his chin and jaw.

After a few minutes of walking and dragging, they approached a gentle and rustic dwelling made of white and gray stones. A dog or two were picketed out front.

"Agona! Agona! Open the door," the man called for his wife. The strange man did not seem to badly injured, only dazed and stunned. Still, his wounds were bleeding.

"What is it Dagonen? Another messenger?" asked a voice from inside the cozy structure. Dagonen just rolled his eyes.

"Just come quickly and bring some water!""

A young boy of around nine opened the door and stared at his father with wide eyes. Dagonen winked and dragged the bloody wanderer indoors.

"Dagonen. I just started cooking. You'd better have a good reason for…" Agona stopped stop when she came into the hall and saw the stranger bleeding on her carpet. "Who is that?" Dagonen started to answer but was cut off by his wife's disapproving tone. "Oh no, Dagonen. Not another stranger in our house! Heaven knows we've had too many strange visitors in these parts."

Frustrated with his wife, Dagonen turned to shut the front door.

"Now mother, surely we can afford to lend this stranger some aid. We've only got one today. Have you ever known to me to turn away one who needed help?"

Agona sighed and nodded her head. Together they moved the stranger into the living room. The hovel's chimney began to billow white smoke as Agona prepared the midday meal and warm tea for their new guest.


	4. John Black Jack

Chapter Four: John Black Jack

Barrazzev, astirde his black steed, bolted down the Great East Road. He cradled his lame arm gingerly as the hooves of his horse pounded on the stony ground. Wincing violently in his saddle, he recalled the words spoken by the interloper. They aroused a deadly cold that crawled through his flesh and sunk into his bones. And even more deadly to him the voice that spoke them. It was clear, full of power, and bereft of fear. His chief purpose was to waylay and test the strength of the fool. And he found him easily mastered and no real threat to his master's plans. He did not wish to stay and stand against the newcomer after he had uttered the name of Varda. It was like poison to him.

The merciless assassin urged his horse faster until the animal was frothing violently. Little compassion did he have for the creature. His cold heart was bare of charity and mercy… a trait that can only be conceived by spending years in the vile pits of the Necromancer. The warrior was met with a thrill of fear as he was assailed by the unwanted memories of those dark days.

Then there was good news.

The good news was there was a familiar black streak at the edge of his vision that successfully distracted him from his unpleasant thoughts.

The bad news was… there was a familiar black streak at the edge of his vision.

He pulled on the reins with such brutal ferocity that crimson blood poured from the gums of the lathered animal. He dismounted and left the poor animal there, heaving violently as it labored to breathe.

A large, wolf-like dog stood in the middle of the road, snarling as the dust settled. Barrazzev sneered distastefully at the animal and called into the eaves of the forest:

"Hail Jojikaz, or, as he prefers, John Black Jack, the Greatest Highwayman Middle-earth."

"Oh Barrazzev, how you flatter me, laughed a voice as a handsome man walked out from the woods. He wore all black, melting into the shadows as one. A smug smirk was on his beautifully carved face and he patted the dog on her head. "Hound couldn't resist the urge to-"

"I should kill you where you stand you filthy traitor," Barrazzev spat, starting toward him, but the good-looking highwayman held up a dagger between two fingers.

"It's so funny that you should say this to me… now when you are unarmed, wounded, tired and I am surrounded by five able men and a hound. Do not make unfriendly and empty threats now, dear friend."

"When the Dark Lord rises again, he will find you and you will beg for death… tongue-less, blind and deaf and-"

Black Jack rolled his eyes and tossed the dagger in his hand carelessly. It embedded itself in Barrazzev's bad shoulder. "You know I never miss Barry. Besides, for all you know, I am running errands for our lord up here in the North. Be on your way and leave me to mine."

"Well if you had allowed me to continue riding," growled Barrazzev reproachfully He looked into the eaves of the tress to see some archers and blades men smiling eerily at him. "What say you Jojikaz… an honest one on one duel to the death. I am already wounded…"

"Since when have I played fair?" asked Black Jack, smiling wickedly, and looking at his nails.

"You never had because you know you can't fend for yourself against me…"

"Then why should I play fair?"

Barrazzev sneered and sneered some more… but it did him no good.

"What is it you want?"

"Your stuff," he said simply. "But we'll leave you your horse so you can get to wherever it is you plan on getting so fast and be grateful. Titan over there is practically eating a branch he's so hunger. Hound's been getting his food lately."

"I know perfectly well what that dog means to you,'' Barrazzev said, smiling wickedly. "If anything happens to her…"

But Black Jack held up his dagger threatening.

"Leave a man his secrets."

"You are not a man."

"Yet still more so than you."

Much later that night, Barrazzev reached the eaves of the Trollshaws. They towered ominously over him the stars winked at him between clouds. It had been a day since he encountered his quarry and before he returned to his lord, he would pull one last trick. In the depths of the sunless woods there were camped servants that would do Barrazzev's bidding. Barrazzev smirked maliciously at their unwavering obedience, fearing the dark sorcery he possessed.

"There is a traveler heading East. Kill him,'' he ordered and after a brief description of Nalilothon, they were off to their post. He smiled grimly.

_Let's hope Jojikaz isn't traveling east. _


End file.
